


felix culpa

by doraemon27



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cassian (mentioned) - Freeform, Eating Disorders, Elain Archeron (mentioned), F/M, Feyre Archeron (mentioned) - Freeform, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No ACOSF Spoilers, Post-Book 3.5: A Court of Frost and Starlight, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, so many tws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29689821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doraemon27/pseuds/doraemon27
Summary: Nesta Archeron is struggling. As a human, she hated herself. As a High Fae, she hates herself even more. So she finds ways to cope.Or the one where Nesta has extremely unhealthy coping mechanisms and extreme issues.(No ACOSF spoilers)
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	felix culpa

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before ACOSF came out and while it was good, I was a little disappointed. I feel like her issues run way deeper than what SJM wrote about, so here's how I think Nesta behaves in those nine months. Please mind the tags!

Nesta stares at the silver blade, its glare reduced to barely a shine from the dim light of her cramped apartment that makes its way through the singular grimy window. The hilt is a simple dark wood, but the blade, she is sure, is sharp enough to cut her new body. Her new High Fae body, with its lethal grace and pointed ears. She hates it. She doesn’t care anymore. Let other males do what they wish to her. Every inch of herself is not her own. Her life broken and shattered by the thrice-damned Cauldron like the remains of the mirror on the floor. Nesta could not bear to look at herself anymore.  
Nesta moves a trembling hand and runs her index finger along the sharp blade. Almost immediately, a small gash appears but heals over just as quickly. In its wake is only a salt-iron tang, the scent obvious to her delicate Fae senses. The scent is familiar to her, taking her back to a bloodstained battlefield where Fae died by the hundreds. Where her father died. Despite herself, she smiles. She smiles at the memory of the King of Hybern’s head in her hand as she detached it methodically from his spine. She laughs, a sharp trill breaking through the oppressive silence, knowing that she can share in the pain that those on the battlefield with her felt. Because she deserves this. She deserves every inch of the pain and suffering that she inflicted on others when she let them die on the battlefield. She was never supposed to live, never hoped for a future.  
Taking a chance, she closes the rest of her hand on the blade, grasping it like how she once contemplated strangling herself with her newfound strength. The pain cuts through the numbing haze that haunted her for months, focusing her mind and clearing her thoughts. The rivulets of dark blood trickling down her arm wash the pain away. _Drip, drip, dripping on the floor._ It’s beautiful. The color richer than any dye that the Night Court could buy, even with their wealth. The red, she notes dispassionately, is so much darker than the shine of his Siphons.  
But all too quickly, it’s over; skin knitting back together in a pink line. She sighs and wonders how much blood she would need to spill for her to be released. So she sets the blade down, still crusted with dried blood, and waits for another day. Nesta misses the feeling already. So she picks up the knife again, and again.

* * *

The second time isn’t intentional. Nesta sits on the edge of the cracked porcelain bathtub that came with the apartment. Her reflection in the water is distorted as she drags a slim finger through the surface. The ripples change her features ever so slightly. Just enough that the pointed ears ripple and she can imagine she still has rounded ears. Human ears.  
She exhales and for a second, she sees the vast expanse of the Cauldron’s depths. Something she can never speak about to anyone else. No one else understands. Elain, she knows, will not speak about it and Nesta is unwilling to burden her more. Her soul was so bright that the Cauldron laughed in joy and bestowed a gift on the middle Archeron. The carrying whisper of _Lady of Time_ interwoven into Elain’s very being. Unlike Nesta’s magic of darkness and death however, Elain’s promises light and laughter. Nesta refuses to taint her like that. So she distances herself. She distances herself from Elain and Feyre, her last remaining family. It hurts, but Nesta savors the pain.  
_My little queen_ , Mother had said with her imperious smile, _You are different from your sisters. One day, your rule will be one of nightmares. And they will turn on you. Distance yourself now, and you will not be hurt._ A sardonic smile curves Nesta’s lips, _I have listened to you, Mother. I am utterly alone now. So why do I still hurt?_  
Slowly, too slowly, she undresses herself and steps into the bathtub. Step by step, the water laps at her foot, then her shin, then her knee. The cold kiss of the water is not painful, yet she feels her breathing speed up already. The memories crash over her, the suffocating feeling of the Cauldron and her foot slips on the slick porcelain of the tub. She falls, immediately submerged. In her panic, Nesta can not think. Fear and adrenaline has emptied her mind of all rational thought. _This is it_ , she thinks, _I will not come back a second time._ So she stops struggling, the lack of oxygen debilitating. She inhales the water, feeling the familiar burning in her lungs already.  
Her death song rises up in her. The burning changes from an inferno to a comforting warmth that quickly becomes painful. She screams, the agony of burning from the inside, and the bathtub is empty, the water evaporated to steam. Nesta notices the flash of silver fire as she opens her eyes. Her disappointment in herself is palpable.

* * *

She tore out the Cauldron's power with her teeth, unwilling to lose even an inch of herself in return. In the end, it didn’t matter though. She lost herself in the process, yet the Cauldron lives on inside her. Distantly, she feels the dark cry of the stolen magic rising up in her in her veins again. It is unbearable, a chorus of agony, desperation, and sorrow. The alcohol quiets it to a hum for a little while, but the siren song always returns louder every time, demanding release.  
So she takes another sip of the burning amber liquid. And another. And another. Until she can't hear the screams of pain that sound in her ears everyday. She drinks until the pain dulls and she can sleep. She fucks until the pain is a distant murmur that comes back in the morning. Though there is no emotional connection whatsoever, just feeling someone else's body heat next to her own is enough. It should be enough. Until it isn't. Until she craves the steady beat of their heart next to her ear to reassure herself that he is still alive. That not everything she touches ends in death.  
Feyre's new family, she knows, disapproves of her behavior. Nesta hopes that they will either kill her to spare themselves the trouble or kick her out of Velaris so she can die without burdening her sisters. Rhysand will surely do it. The violet gleam of his eyes murderous everytime they speak, regardless of how carefully chosen his words are to avoid Feyre's chiding. It doesn't matter, of course, because Feyre will always choose Rhysand over Nesta. And Nesta is satisfied. She is happy that Feyre has someone to call her own. She is happy that Elain has people to protect her now. Another sip.  
Nesta knows that Tomas Mandray is an abusive bastard. She knew it, but without her as a buffer, he would have set his sights on sweet Elain or little Feyre. Already, he allowed his gaze to wander when the Archerons roamed the market looking to spend what little coin they had. So Nesta had wasted it, wasted Feyre's hard earned money on luxuries if only to force Feyre to go to the market alone so that Nesta could slip out of their little hut and keep Tomas from acting on his perversions. His hands on her body, she shudders. A larger sip this time, she frowns. She is halfway through the bottle.  
_'Bruises are harder to conceal than poverty'_ , Feyre had told her as she sacrificed herself for them to leave with the beastly High Lord of Spring. Nesta was inclined to disagree, she had clearly hid her bruises well from Feyre. She would have murdered him if she thought she could get away with it. Once Feyre and Elain were out of Tomas's grasp, Nesta broke off the engagement. There was no more reason to pretend to need the bastard. She couldn’t forget his disgusting touch. His attempts to take what was not his as she left him. She had felt _unclean_ for weeks afterwards. The panic as he overpowered her was overwhelming. The terror of what could have been.  
Nesta had always been Mother's favorite. _So serious_ , the other socialites cooed, _She will have excellent marriage prospects one days. But be sure not to let her temper run too wild. If you do not tame her, she will grow too willful._ How disappointed Mother would be in her now, she thinks. To see her disgrace herself. How proud Mother would be that someone finally managed to tame her.  
Feyre and Elain, their father's pride. But her father was weak. He let Mother die. Mother, the only one who understood Nesta. He would have let all of them die if not for Feyre's meddling. She regrets few things in life, one of them being that Feyre had to grow up so quickly. So she accepts every snide comment made by Morrigan and Rhysand at the farce of a family dinner that Feyre puts together. She tries to leash most of her temper, but she can tell she needs to extinguish her flame more. Their looks are scornful everytime it rises within her. _Burn, burn, burn_ , she whispers, _I will burn this city down._  
Idly, she finishes her whiskey. She drowns the thoughts by ordering another bottle of whiskey from the bartender. He looks concerned, but does not cut her off. Once, she did not favor alcohol so much. A few occasional sips of red wine at dinner or while reading a book were all that she would indulge herself. After the library where she and Feyre were almost murdered, her nerves had been frayed like someone had run a dull knife, over and over again. Distantly, she remembered a glass of amber liquid being handed to her and she downed it in a gulp. The burning was enough to shock her back to sanity and the warmth in the pit of her stomach addicting. She went back for more whiskey every time she felt so cold that she could not warm up by herself.  
Nesta frowns, the bottle is empty. So she calls for another.

* * *

The pain of the yawning pit in her stomach is nothing compared to the humiliation of asking Feyre for help. Her sister had sacrificed enough for their family and Nesta did not want to continue being a burden. So she would deal with this issue on her own.  
She stares at the Fae food and tries to not throw up. It's not that it is unappetizing, she is sure it tastes wonderful, but everything has tasted like ash since the battlefield. The cloying scent of blood and dirt and ash settled into her senses and never left. So she goes days without eating, waiting until she is sure she will pass out from the pain and reminding herself that she has not yet entirely cut herself off from her sisters yet. They may still mourn her. She chokes down whatever she brought home. It does not stay down for long though, she always spends the rest of her night hunched over a bowl, her stomach trying to expel its contents.  
Nesta hates the dinners that Feyre forces her to go to. Hates her sisters, hates her sister’s new family, hates the way Cassian’s taunts needle her just so. She hates the way that Cassian will not allow her to deny their connection, hates the way he disregards her when Morrigan saunters into the room. But most of all, she hates herself for wanting her family. It is a fool’s hope. She wants to wash her hands clean of all of them and leave everything behind, but she has no place to run, to hide, to take shelter from the nightmares that haunt her. _Ruler of nightmares_ , indeed, she scoffs. She can not leave on her own, so she is imprisoned in Velaris, her sister’s salvation. The thought makes her sick. She wants to get better out of spite, but for once, her hatred isn’t enough.  
Nesta stares at her uneaten plate of food again and pushes it away. _No, she will not be able to eat today._

* * *

Going to the Solstice party was a bad idea, she should have known. She should have ignored the money and just allowed herself to waste away. The cut of his words hurts more than any wound she can inflict on herself. A voice in her head whispers, _everything he said was true_. Wincing ever so slightly from the pain, she makes another methodical cut along her inner forearm to join the rapidly healing dozen cuts that she already made. She knows she’s weak for not ending it already. Making excuses every time for herself. But now, she’s free. She does not deserve her sisters, she knows. And now she knows they will not mourn her. No one will remember her. She will fade into absolutely nothing and she deserves this. Nesta was a fool. A flash of silver and a macabre red smile through the pain.  
“Nesta!” A panicked cry.  
_Cassian_ , she thinks. She feels the urge rise up to deliver a biting retort, one so cruel he will just leave her alone. But she’s _so, so tired._  
The darkness claims her.

* * *

_Feyre, live your immortal life in peace without another burden. I’m sorry I was never the sister you deserved. I hope your new family will be more.  
Elain, do not mourn me. I will be happy again soon.  
I am unlovable.  
  
Signed,   
Nesta Archeron_


End file.
